A blessed life, with soundtrack

Cornel West asked me whether there'd be sunshine when he got to Seattle.

It was overcast, so I said he might have to bring it with him.

There is nothing gray about the Princeton professor except the color spreading through his beard and untamed Afro.

His shirts are always white and his three-piece suits black, while his personality is vibrantly colorful.

West speaks poetry, calls people my dear brother, my loving sister, campaigns for politicians, visits prisons, even put out a hip-hop album, speaks Hebrew, loves Plato and Chekhov and Toni Morrison.

West explains himself a bit in his memoir, "Brother West: Living and Loving Out Loud," which he promoted in Seattle Wednesday.

His 19 previous books delved into philosophy, race, religion, history and democracy.

When we spoke by phone earlier in the week, I asked what he'd learned writing about himself.

"I learned that I'm even more blessed than I thought I was, that there had been more grace, more luck, more fortune than I had even realized," he said.

West was born in Tulsa, but grew up in Sacramento. And he was indeed blessed, raised by two loving parents, who were professionals at a time (not that long ago, he's 56) when that was rare for black folks.

He had the love of his grandparents, his older brother and two sisters, and yet he was a little terror.

He beat up other kids, but all in the name of justice. He'd jump bullies or take lunch money from children who had a lot and give it to those who had none.

At age 9 West was expelled when he punched a teacher in the arm for trying to force him to stand for the Pledge of Allegiance. He was stewing over the racist treatment his family received during visits to grandparents in Oklahoma and Texas.

His mother, a teacher and later a principal with a school named for her, had him tested. His IQ was 168, and he was placed in a school for gifted students where his behavior changed.

He played violin in the orchestra. Loved Beethoven and Mozart. He was a star athlete.

He went to Harvard at 17, and graduated in three years magna cum laude.

West has taught at Harvard, Yale and Princeton, and though he loves teaching, he told me that's his day job. His life task is to pursue justice and spread love.

"My fundamental identity, I'm a Jesus-loving free black man who wants to tell the truth and bear witness to love and justice in the world, and I can't conceive of myself any other way."

West said commitment to that calling explains why he has been married and divorced three times. I suspect his ex-wives might have different perspectives.

He fathered two children and writes that he went broke paying alimony and child support.

West's book has a soundtrack. He quotes from favorite songs that capture the mood of each life event. David Ruffin's "Walk Away From Love," plays over his third divorce. "I'm going to walk away from love, before love breaks my heart."

I said he seemed to be skimping on the details, but he wouldn't tell me much more than that. He has more to say about his public heartbreak.

In his book, West writes that Lawrence Summers, then Harvard president, called him into his office with a list of complaints that proved untrue. Summers never apologized and instead asked that West report to him regularly for close scrutiny of his work. West left for Princeton.

Summers is now the chief of Barack Obama's economic team.

"I have forgiven him a long time ago," West told me. "I just feel bad that no matter how brilliant he is, he has trouble treating people with decency, and most important at the political level, I'm just profoundly disappointed that Barack Obama would choose, not just Summers, but a whole economic team that has absolutely no record whatsoever of being concerned about poor people or working people."

West planned to urge Seattle progressives to make Obama accountable to poor and working people.

As for the gray sky, he said, "Oh no, you got sunshine in your heart, brother, it's already there."

Jerry Large's column appears Monday and Thursday. Reach him at 206-464-3346 or jlarge@seattletimes.com.